Truth Based On Lies
by JStone95
Summary: Detective Quinn Fabray didn't expect a simple case of art theft to get so out of hand. And Rachel Berry didn't expect this simple mission to turn out to be her greatest adventure of all. Faberry.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, this will be like the Glee pilot - first chapter is out here, I'll see if anyone reads this, then freaking two months later it will become a regular story. I think. And because it's a new story:**

**Genre: Crime/Romance**

**Pairing: Faberry**

**Friendships: Pezberry, Puckleberry; Fabang and Fabrevans(?)**

**Summary: Quinn didn't expect a simple case of art theft to get so out of hand. And Rachel didn't expect this simple mission to turn out to be her greatest adventure. - Wow did I just sound corny.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own anything.**

* * *

Quinn knew she was going to become crazy if she had to see the tape one more time; she had been watching it on loop for hours now. The blurry, black and white recorded scenes affected her concentration hugely and she could already feel the approaching headache.

"Shit," she quietly cursed, stopping the running tape with a rough push.

She just couldn't figure out what the criminal in the tape wanted; he was clearly a professional. No amateur would dare to enter the Museum of Modern Art at night with all the security measures taken. But somehow, he had managed to turn off the whole security system in the museum, chloroformed all the employees working there in their night shift _and _even shut off all the cameras. Except for one; exactly the one camera that had recorded his actions of stealing five paintings in the same hall.

All this big preparation and effort of shutting down the whole museum just to steal _five _paintings.

That was why Quinn ruled out the most basic motive behind a theft; money. There had been at least three paintings of more value in the same hall, just at one arm's length, but the thief had only taken the five he had set his eyes on.

But what was even more unsettling, the thief had wanted to be recorded during his actions. Hence the tape in Quinn's possession. He had even waved into the camera once he had finished dismantling the last artwork; whenever Quinn came to this scene, all the muscles in her body would tense up as if she was preparing herself to lunge at the screen, diving into the scene to catch him.

The thief was clothed like a ninja; nothing of his face could be seen aside from a thin slit for the eyes. But with the bad quality of the surveillance camera, even the eyes weren't discernible. They could be red for all Quinn cared, she still wouldn't know.

The only hint that might eliminate a large percentage of potential thiefs was the lean and short statue of the criminal, suggesting the person to be a woman. No man had such a slender waist.

Quinn sighed to herself, pinching her nose in frustration. Long hours of work, yet nothing. They had nothing; they didn't know more than they did the day before and her boss was getting pushy, urging for progress, even if minimal.  
It irked Quinn to no end that the boring case of stolen artworks had been thrown onto her lap without her consent.

Apparently, the stolen paintings were of heavy importance to the history of America and only the best detectives were to handle this case. Quinn was supposed to feel flattered that her captain, William Schuester, had suggested her as a suitable investigator in front of the mayor; but as honoring as the amount of responsibility put on her shoulders was, she deemed herself as a woman of action.

She needed the thrill, the kick, the adrenaline rushing through her veins whenever she was going after a hot trail in the city; she wasn't made for sitting in her office for countless hours, ruining her perfect eyes by staring at endless rolls of surveillance tapes. She was the elite, she was supposed to handle the big stuff, and not some robbery in a museum. Even if it was the Museum of Modern Art in midtown Manhatten, not ten minutes away from her precinct.

The only consolation for her pride was the fact that those stolen artworks were together almost as valuable as the Mona Lisa, which made her own value as a detective grow immensely as well, especially if she should be able to catch the thief. And another plus; the mayor of New York knew her by her name now.

Other than that, Quinn was heavily frustrated. She couldn't understand how one of her colleagues in her department, Finn Hudson, seemed to be so content with this type of work. He took over most of the paper work, obediently doing all the research that Quinn ordered him to do while she was out there, at the crime scenes, doing the physical work.

Hudson had already been doing that many years before she even got transferred here, which was one year ago; she was already about to lose her mind doing it for three days.

Granted, she was used to immediate succes after a few hours of searching and probing, but that might be because most of the criminals were simply too dilettante to pull a grand theft without leaving some kind of trace. Still, she couldn't fathom what made this art robbery different from all the others, just because the stolen items were more worth than ten years of her annual salary.

"Fabray, we got the suspect you wanted," Mike Chang, her loyal work partner informed her with a tired grin. Like her, he was given a task beneath his usual niveau, but he remained respectful about it and tried to see the positive side. He always tried to see the positive in everything, even in criminals; his calm and kind nature made him a perfect partner for Quinn.

They balanced each other out; Quinn liked the hard facts of reality while Mike used his imagination to play out the scenes of crime in his head. They hardly agreed on the same thing without arguing back and forth for at least an hour. Well, it was mostly Quinn who hotly argued, while Mike would calmly throw in new questions as impulses from time to time, causing Quinn to start again. She argued for them both.

But this time, both could worldlessly agree on the same thing; this case was starting to get on their nerves.  
"You got Lopez?" Quinn asked in a hopeful tone, eager to leave her workplace to do some interrogation. If there was one place where she felt powerful and in charge, then it was the interrogation room. This was the place where she could let her aura of authority unfold, where her piercing eyes made even the toughest men cower back.

Quinn was well aware of her role as the bad cop. Unrelenting, stubborn, somewhat immune to the background story of any kind of people. Not easy to be intimidated, not one to back down, and even less of someone to let herself be provocated. But if her temperament happened to get the better of her, Mike would step in and be the nice cop. He didn't do it on purpose, he wasn't trying to use a psychological trick to win the criminals' trust. It was just his nature, he couldn't be cold or rude to anyone; he would treat a murderer the same way he would treat his grandmother: with utmost respect.

Behind his back, envious detectives called him weak and predicted that the lack of fear-inducing aura of his persona would one day cost him his life. But among the criminals, his respectful manner had earned him a good reputation, as much good reputation a cop in the underworld of crime could have. Criminals might not have morals, but they did value the asset respect.

Quinn had not seldomly found herself in a position where the criminal plainly asked if he could have Mike Chang interrogate him, because he at least would let him talk without interruption and judgement. She didn't mind as long as it got the people to confess. Because what she had learned in her years as a detective, these people in handcuffs were just human, too, and they wanted to be heard, to be acknowledged. Their intentions were sometimes pure, while their actions weren't.

"She put up a fight first, because we surprised her in the middle of a shopping tour."

Mike handed Quinn a thin folder which she accepted with a quiet thanks, her eyes already focused on the first page.

"Santana Lopez, 27. Charged twice for physical assault, one on a police officer, the other on a cab driver. Both charges were dropped," Mike quickly informed her.

"Why?"

Quinn stood up from her chair with a frown that quickly turned into a pained grimace. She had been in a sitting position for far too long. Desk work was certainly not her thing.

"I'm not quite sure about that one," Mike said. "Something about indirect connections to the mayor."

"The same mayor that wished us good luck on this case?"

"The very same."

"Maybe this will be easier than I thought. This can't be a coincidence."

"I wouldn't speak too soon."

Quinn rolled her eyes, but she did it with a smile. "Let's see if Lopez can speed up things a little bit, I don't think I will a survive a week of this."

Both headed to the interrogation room, where their first and only suspect was already waiting.

"She's got attitude, gotta give her that," Quinn muttered, her eyes piercing through the special window glass, which was mirrored inside. She closely observed a young and attractive Latina, who was either boredly looking at her fingernails or shooting a sassy smirk at the mirrored glass like she knew that she was being watched. "But she doesn't look like a thief to me."

"Too classy?" Mike asked, intrigued by the Latina, who had just winked in his direction. Could she possibly see behind the mirrored glass or was it just a lucky guess?

"Hm. She seems to be, though something about her tells me that it wasn't a trait she was born with. It came with the wealth."

Mike looked closer at the woman in the room. "You're right. Her prideful stance is wavering, she starts to feel annoyed now."

"Let's go in before she gets completely uncooperative," Quinn said, and they both strode into the interrogation room after politely knocking on the door.

The Latina looked up with a smirk, apparently amused by the situation she had found herself in. Quinn noticed grimly that the suspect showed no signs of nervousness or tension, quite on the contrary; she seemed to be exact the type of person to make a simple interrogation turn into hard, endless work.

"You know, I don't mind being stared at; no need to do it secretly behind these glasses. I'm hot and that's okay if it took you longer to come in and have the balls to talk to me."

As Quinn had predicted, the Latina had taken it upon herself to start the conversation, and by the tone of the opening note, this interrogation was going to be a long and possibly fruitless ride.

"Ms Lopez," Mike simply stated, a cordial form of greeting her.

The Latina scanned his face, recognition dawning on her own. "Ah. So you're the good guy here. Then I guess blondie over there will be the one to ride my ass hard."

She paused, her eyes trailing from Mike to Quinn, blatantly making a show of checking out her body. "Though by the looks of it, I wouldn't mind you riding -"

"Ms Lopez," Quinn curtly interrrupted her, already starting to feel irritated by the sheer audacity the woman possessed. "You have been charged twice because of physical assualt in your otherwise clean record, how is it that these charges got dismissed without further investigation?"

The suspect relaxed back in her chair. "And here I thought I got dragged here for a reason. Fuck, if that LV bag is gone by tomorrow, I will sue your fucking broke asses, cause I -"

"I told the salesman to save it up for you," Mike kindly said, not even having to raise his voice to be heard because the Latina had automatically stopped talking.

Quinn turned her face to the side to hide the shadow of an envious look sweeping over face. Sometimes, it still put a damper on her pride when Mike would achieve more than her with his kindness towards the criminals. She loved him dearly, he was her best friend since they had become partners, but her ambitious side was what drove her, what made Quinn who she was now. She couldn't help it, feeling this way, it wasn't as if she didn't grant him the success. Because if there was someone who deserved more recognition for his work, then it was Mike Chang.

"The bag will still be there tommorrow, though I'll never understand how someone is willing to spend a few thousands dollar for that," Mike said in a conversational tone, not once giving the impression that he was talking down to the suspect. He genuinely sounded like he was in wonder about this. "I think I chose the wrong job, what do you do for a living when you can afford that?"

The hispanic woman stared at him with a blank face, trying to figure out his angle. Then, with a flick of her long, black hair over her shoulder, a one-sided smirk settled on her lips.

"Nice try," she chuckled, tilting her head in a provocative manner. "Almost got on my good side when you saved the LV bag that's got my name written all over it."

Quinn felt her ego being soothed when Mike's attempt of winning Santana Lopez' trust was unsuccessful. She decided to step in.

"We can easily look that up with our computers, why don't you save us some work and just tell us?" Quinn said, looking at Lopez' file. It wasn't very up to date; the last time she had violated the law, she had been noted down as 'unemployed; college student'.

But the woman just crossed her arms and tilted her head to the other side, an unnerving grin gracing her features.

"Careful there, cause I'm earning the income for the both of us every month. You know the fucking amount of taxes I pay, so you losers can sit on your donut-eating asses all day, wasting the time of innocent people with pointless questions? So don't tell me to save you some work, because you need it to somehow make your job not seem completely useless."

She was testing Quinn's hard trained strings of patience, stretching and bending them, almost in a way the blonde had never experienced before. She put both of her hands on the table, which was the only thing separating her from the Latina and she wished there was a wall of glass inbetween them, so she wouldn't try to strangle her.

Mike immediately stepped to her side, ready to interfere if the situation demanded so. But he trusted Quinn enough not to do something that would go against her professional self.

"Ms Lopez," Quinn quietly said, almost calm and polite, but the distinct tone of threat loomed heavily in the air. Lopez noticed this change with a self-satisfied smirk, knowing that her attitude was making things more complicated than they should be. Her reaction just further aggravated Quinn, who was used to seeing men of steel cave in like melted butter under her scrutinizing gaze.

"Getting feisty, I see."

Mike looked between them; a light wrinkle on his forehead was the only indication of his growing worry. He didn't want the situation to escalade. He knew that Quinn hadn't been able to get out of her office for a few days, so being stuck in the same place for a longer period of time could be very unhealthy for a restless person like the blonde.

"I want to be very clear and very direct about this, so you will understand."

"I'm not the blonde one here."

Mike felt that now was an appropiate time to become nervous.

Quinn closed her eyes, her hands gripping the table so hard that the knuckles turned white.

"Let it all out, babe," the Latina further pushed, pushing the line.

The asian man already stretched out his hands, fully prepared to hold back a furious Quinn, but she didn't move. Hands propped on the table, she looked downwards when she suddenly said in a low voice, "How did you learn to talk like that, huh?"

This got the other two in the room to drop their masks for a short while, surprise flickering across their features.

"What are you talking about?"

Quinn didn't look up. She just shook her head slightly, blonde locks falling off her shoulders to frame her face, covering her expression like a curtain. The Latina didn't try to show it, but she was thrown off by this sudden change of tactic.

"You've got a sharp tongue. You're quick to fire back. But you don't know when to cease the fire, when to let it burn of its own accord."

Neither Lopez nor Mike could fully comprehend the words that were whispered in a silky voice. The suspect didn't like the new game she found herself in, she wasn't in control anymore. She needed to rip the strings of control back to herself.

"Listen there," the Latina started, but Quinn simply shook her head. Mike was dumbstruck when Lopez let herself be interrupted.

"You can pretend all you want," the detective calmly said, "but you've been burned many times before you knew how to fire back."

At this, Lopez' prideful and arrogant aura faltered. She didn't even try a comeback.

Quinn finally looked up, straight into the Latina's eyes. Where irritation had glowed in her hazel eyes before, they were now oddly empty, only tinged with the hint of pity.

"Tell me," she softly said. "How many times did it take for you to finally snap and learn to fight back? What made you turn your weakness into your weapon; why do you try to destroy people with the same weapon that tried to destroy you?"

If Mike had been impressed before by Quinn, then it was nothing compared to what he was feeling now. He watched Lopez face gaining a red tint, she was getting agitated. The tables had turned.

"Shut up," Lopez hissed, facing away, "you know nothing bout me."

Quinn easily nodded, almost in a good-natured way. "No, I don't," she agreed, "I never claimed I did. But I can recognize the difference between character traits that we're born with and character traits that we have forced on us to protect ourselves."

The blonde watched the other woman's reaction, closely searching for any signs that could give her away. After one last probing glance, she softened her gaze and stepped away from the table.

"I don't believe you're a bad person, Santana."

The Latina looked up at the mention of her first name, the vulnerability in her eyes shining through her crumbling mask of indifference.

"You just had bad things happen to you. But that doesn't make you a bad person."

Mike couldn't believe what he was seeing. The best detective of New York in action. It still amazed him whenever he witnessed Quinn cracking even the hardest shells.

Lopez shortly closed her eyes, sighing. Her tense shoulders slacked.

"Get on with the questions, I don't have all day."

The breakthrough. Quinn had done it.

Mike suppressed a relieved grin. Eighty percent of the work was done, the interrogation itself wouldn't be difficult as long as Lopez cooperated.

"I don't know if you heard the news," Quinn slowly began, now letting herself sit down opposite of Lopez. Mike quickly followed her lead. "But three days ago, the MoMA has been robbed."

"The what?"

"The Museum of Modern Art."

Lopez looked at her with a defiant glint in her eyes. "And how is that of my concern? I don't care for the ridiculous stuff that they call art, even I drew better when I was in kindergarten."

Quinn could feel Mike tensing up next to her, probably offended how Lopez called the abstract artworks ridiculous. She knew that he would try to argue with her over the perspective of art, so she put a hand on his thigh, warningly squeezing him. He leaned back in his chair with a quiet grunt.

"Well, if you have such a strong dislike towards the arts, then why is it that we have video material that can prove your visit at the museum three days before the robbery?"

When the Latina didn't immediately answer, Quinn wanted to innerly smirk in triumph but something about the way the other woman stayed silent didn't equal with her being guilty.

But Mike didn't think so, mistaking her silence as a non-verbal admission.

"Why did you specifically steal those five paintings?" he eagerly asked. "What is so valuable about them?"

Quinn looked at him in alarm, wanting him to stop setting Lopez off, but it was already too late. The Latina had gotten defensive, she was drawing up her walls.

"I'm not gonna put up with all this crap alone," she bitingly replied. "I want my lawyer."

Quinn innerly groaned. Lawyers just made things more complicated. But she couldn't disallow Lopez the right to call assistance.

She wordlessly nodded to Mike, who seemed peeved at himself now that he had recognized his mistake. He took the business card from Lopez' outstretched hand and stood up, leaving the interrogation room. His expression obviously showed that he was currently cursing himself for his hasty move.

Quinn had no choice but to cross her arms behind her head and wait. When she blankly stared at the ceiling lights, she missed the deceitful glint in her opposite's eyes.

* * *

A light knock on the door signalled the lawyer's arrival and Quinn stood up out of politeness. She didn't want to get on the wrong side of the lawyer, but as far as her experiences went, all of them were assholes. They were there to make money and even if the criminals were guilty as charged, they liked to draw out the inevitable process of getting them into a jail.

But once Mike stepped aside to reveal a beautiful brunette woman, around Lopez' age, Quinn was ready to change her opinion.

"I thought you were supposed to call a lawyer?" Quinn questioned Mike, but he was kind of busy staring at the gorgeous woman next to him, too.

"Oh, don't worry, I'm at the right place," she said with a radiant smile, confusing Quinn even more. The blonde just thought it was strange to see this type of woman in her interrogation room; she seemed too soft and too kind to be a lawyer. Her expressive eyes shone so bright with _life _and warmth, hardly intimidating nor authoritative. Only her attire, a branded woman's suit, suggested otherwise.

Quinn silently watched the petite brunette taking a seat next to Lopez, acknowledging her client with a minimal nod, which was reciprocated. The blonde tried to figure out their relation; they seemed to be acquainted with each other, but she couldn't tell how much. Did Lopez often need her lawyer?

"Can we continue?" Quinn asked, more directed at the brunette than at the Latina.

"I am ready if my client is," the lawyer said with a side glance at said client, who rolled with her eyes. "Get on with it."

Mike put a printed snapshot outtake of a surveillance tape onto the table, pointing to it while saying, "This is a snapshot from a surveillance camera at the information desk at the entrance of the MoMa. I believe that despite the bad quality of this picture, you cannot deny that this is Ms Lopez at the information desk."

Quinn watched the lawyer's reaction like a hawk when she was supposed to focus more on the suspect. But she couldn't help it, something about the woman drew her in. They way she held herself in complete self-confidence without coming off as arrogant and snobbish. That was new to Quinn and she wanted to learn, to observe. She wanted to know more about her.

"No, there is certainly no space for argument here," the brunette calmly said, her tone not indicating anything else but mere admission. Quinn was stunned. The lawyer worked quite differently than her peers. The detective was used to opposition even in the most obvious cases.

She shared a look with Mike, who furrowed his eyebrows.

"So your client can confirm her presence that day?" Mike pressed her on.

The brunette lawyer looked at the woman next to her, who nodded while working her jaw. Then she said in a light tone, like Quinn and Mike hadn't witnessed Lopez' reaction themselves, "Yes, she can confirm that."

Quinn cleared her throat. "Ms..." she trailed off, not knowing how to address the pretty lawyer.

"Berry. Rachel Berry," she helped out with a smile, so radiant that it was almost inappropiate in an interrogation room where people rarely smiled. And when, then only out of pure malice or insanity or both.

Clearing her throat again, Quinn added, "Ms Berry." She let the name ring out in the room. "According to the records of the security staff in this museum, Ms Lopez was striking with her attitude towards the people behind the information desk, which led to an intervention by five security members. Can she share the reason behind her behaviour that day?"

Berry gave her client an expectant look. The latter one slowly said, "I did nothing wrong. I only asked if some of the paintings were for sale, but that bitch laughed into my face, saying that I wouldn't be able to afford them anyway. So I guess I let out my inner bitch then."

Mike leaned in closer to Quinn, muttering into her ear, "She's telling the truth, that's what the security staff remembered, too. And the woman at the information desk is really kind of a bitch, she didn't believe me when I said I was a cop, not even when I showed her my badge."

Quinn didn't let the new information faze her. "So since you couldn't get those paintings the legal way, you decided to take the illegal path?"

Lopez' face turned into a deep scowl. Her lawyer immediately responded in a mild voice, "Detective, do you not deem rash conclusions as rather counterproductive? If you are searching for the delinquent based on mere behaviour, then I am afraid that there will be a large number of possible suspects. Furthermore, did my client ever mention wanting to purchase exactly the same paintings that have been stolen?"

Quinn had misjudged the lawyer. It wasn't that she didn't believe her to be competent enough to fulfill her job's duties, but she just didn't seem right for it. She would've rather guessed Lopez to be the sharp-mouthed lawyer.

"Well, before your arrival, Ms Lopez has admitted to not share a passion for those artworks. Then why is she contradicting herself by having had the wish to purchase a painting?" Mike jumped in when Quinn took longer to think of a response.

"I have no doubt that my client has a reasonable answer to this," Berry easily said, her light voice relaxed. Lopez just nodded, "My wife digs this art stuff. So I wanted to surprise her for our tenth year anniversary."

At this, Mike couldn't contain his romantic heart. "You've been together since seventeen?" he blurted out, forgetting for one moment his professional side. Quinn wanted to face-palm.

But Lopez didn't seem to mind, which honestly surprised Quinn. The previous aloof and distant expression got replaced with a proud look. "Together since high school, senior year."

Next to her, Berry allowed herself a soft, knowing smile towards her client. Quinn raised her eyebrows at that. So they did know each other beyond the vocational relations.

"And which painting did you have in mind?" Mike asked, having regained his serious tone again.

Lopez replied with no hesitation, "_The Land of Fairytales_. My girl loves abstract fantasy stuff."

Mike and Quinn shared a look, now knowing for sure that the suspect wasn't lying. No one was able to produce such a quick lie like a sure statement out of thin air, and they were pretty certain that the look of love couldn't be faked that well.

Nonetheless, for mere formalities, Quinn further questioned, with less urgency though, "Then one last question. Where were you this Tuesday between one am and three am?"

Lopez replied easily enough, "Between my wife's legs."

Suppressing a grimace at the additional piece of information, she said, "We will have your wife confirm that."

This was the cue for Berry to stand up. "Very well," she said with optimism, like they just had a successful business meeting. "If there are no further questions, I believe my client is dismissed."

Quinn stood up as well, stretching out her hand, "It was nice working with you. I wished I would meet lawyers like you more often."

Something in the brunette's eyes sparkled, making the detective believe that the ceiling lights were playing a trick on her mind. What was that in her eyes?

"The pleasure is on my side," Berry said with a charming smile, that suddenly twitched when she continued, "but if I were you, I wouldn't hope for more lawyers like me."

They shook hands, a firm and short contact, yet it made Quinn want to hold on to it longer. She didn't know what was wrong with her, she barely knew the other woman. But she had never met a woman quite like her, fascinating from looks to profession.

She couldn't let her go like that.

Mike seemed to be thinking the same thing. When they walked out of the interrogation room, he discreetly nudged her and pointedly looked at the brunette woman, who was about to leave the precinct with her client.

When Quinn failed to collect her usually huge bravado, he wasted one second face-palming, then quickly called after the two leaving women, "Ms Berry? Ms Lopez?"

Both turned around; one looking surprised, the other annoyed.

Mike jogged over to them, leaving Quinn stupidly standing by herself, trying to look everywhere but at the brunette lawyer.

"We want to thank you again for your cooperation," Mike began, "and we are sorry if we made quick assumptions. But this case is a big deal to us and we need all the help we can get, so if there is something you can contribute, then please feel free to do so. Rather a false lead than no lead at all, isn't it?"

He crossed his fingers behind his back and Quinn did so, too.

"Well," Berry took the bait and the blonde detective across the room held her breath, "I happen to possess a wide range of knowledge about paintings. Maybe we can all arrange a meeting for lunch some time, to discuss about the missing artworks?"

Quinn innerly let out a triumphant yell, which quickly muted when Mike said, "Oh, no, don't count me in, I'm more of a paper work dude. You should arrange a lunch meeting with Ms Fabray over there." And he pointed over his shoulder, straight to the dumbstruck detective behind him.

The brunette woman chuckled and looked over his shoulder, winking at her. Quinn felt her cheeks heating up.

"That can be arranged," she said with a smile and reached inside of her suit, taking out a business card between her pointer finger and middle finger. Mike accepted the card with a thanks and he felt like patting himself on the shoulder.

"Until next time," the brunette pleasantly said, this time actually leaving with her client, who looked less impressed because she had been kept waiting.

When both women disappeared behind closing elevator doors, Mike swiftly turned around like a dancer and he held up the business card in his hands, triumphantly saying, "No need to bow down, I know I'm a hero."

Quinn felt like squealing in excitement and shouting in horror; Mike had just set her up on a date with the beautiful brunette.

Still, the positive feelings in her body won, and she all but lunged at the card in Mike's hand. And it amused the raven-haired man to see a usually composed detective getting excited and nervous about the prospect of finding romance.

This boring art robbery case turned out to have some positive side effects.

* * *

As soon as both women stepped out of the precinct, both spotted a smug smile.

"I'm impressed," the Latina casually said, following the brunette to her car. "You seemed to have picked up a few things from me during my law studies, Berry."

Rachel allowed herself a graceful smile, gently shaking her head. "To be honest, Santana, I was rather acting. My knowledge doesn't range beyond the things I pick up from crime series."

Santana agreeingly hummed. "Either way, they're not as professional as they think to be. They completely swallowed my act as the bitch who doesn't know better."

"Ah, yes, for more sympathy," Rachel understandingly said. "They thought they had you figured out, didn't they?"

"Ha, yeah," the other woman laughed and waited for her friend to unlock the car. "You know what the blonde one said to me? 'You're not a bad person, Santana. You just had bad things happen to you.' I totally should've pulled a crying bitch then and there."

Rachel chuckled in amusement, unlocking her sport car so they both could get in.

"What did you do instead?" she asked once she sat behind the steering wheel.

"I did the vulnerability tour. You know, looking like she's called me out on my shit."

"Now I am the one impressed," Rachel said and she turned on the engine, the car coming alive with a loud roar. "It's nice to see that my studying for acting classes affected you as well. I think we were brilliant with the role switching."

Once the car was on the road, Santana suddenly asked with a smirk, "So are you gonna bang that detective?"

"Language, Santana," Rachel half-heartedly said, for which she earned an eye-roll, then she added, "Which one?"

"You seriously ask me that?" Santana incredulously asked. "Last time I checked, you were into chicks."

The brunette woman hummed tonelessly before she replied, "You know I can't. It's too dangerous to get emotionally involved, I can't afford to let things become awkward if we're planning on being around them until the sabotage is complete. It will take one month at least."

"Who said anything about emotions and all that crap?" Santana easily retorted, dismissively waving with her hand. "If you ask me, you should seduce her. Think about it; you'd have easy access to all the information you want, and that way, we have a better overview over their process, which means we're always one step ahead of them."

Fingers drumming on the steering wheel, Rachel hummed again as she mulled over her friend's words. Then she fiercely shook her head. "You haven't thought about the other side of the coin. Yes, I would have access to her work then, but she would have the same access to me. And you know that this is the last thing we need."

The Latina didn't have an immediate reply for this, because her partner in crime was right. This was a dangerous game to play, they couldn't try out a new strategy without thinking this through.

"Yeah," she finally gave in, sighing. "I get what you mean. The less she knows, the less she asks. There are only so many lies that we can tell without them starting to contradict each other. And I think we need Abrams to update the data on the precinct's computers; it was one month ago last time he hacked the system."

Rachel just agreeingly nodded. It wasn't her part of the job to care about these things; Santana had always been the one to control their connections to other criminals, who would occasionally work for them. As far as she remembered, Abrams was a wheelchair-bound engineer, who earned his additional income as a hacker.

"Such a shame, that detective seemed to be pretty into you."

Rolling her eyes, Rachel decided to change the topic, "So, what are you going to give Brittany for your anniversary?"

Santana blew up her cheeks and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "You know, when you made me learn my lines about that '_The Land of Fairytales'_ crap, I seriously considered getting her something akin to it."

"Santana!" Rachel huffed out. "You could've told me sooner, I would've added that to the list."

"Nah," the Latina waved it off. "Would've disrupted our plan."

Seeing it as it was the truth, Rachel slowly nodded her head, and she focused her attention back on the streets.

"I'm still somewhat surprised that they actually went after you for interrogation. I almost thought that we needed to present them a more obvious link than just a minimal fight with an employee of the museum," she said, and she furrowed her eyebrows. Things were too perfect, too easy. There had to be a flaw in their plan.

Santana sensed that, too, but she knew better than to make herself crazy. Fate was on their side and she was going to take it. "They don't have any leads like they said themselves. They're desperate; desperate times demand desperate measures. I'm the only possible hint and I could easily fit the thief's description."

Rachel hummed again. Everything was going perfect because they had it perfectly planned. There was no flaw to be feared.

"The first step went very well then," she said to herself, already making up a plan in her mind. "If everything goes according to schedule, they'll be off this case in one month and we can advance with our mission."

"Good," Santana remarked, blowing a strand of hair out of her face, "because this is probably one of our most boring missions ever."

Rachel just smiled. "I wouldn't speak too soon."

* * *

**Some people who've already read my Tumblr version of this, yes, I have changed the ending a bit. It seemed too OOC for me if Rachel was heartless about playing with other people's feelings. Not that this isn't too OOC already.**

**So tell me if this is any good and whether I should continue?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I ówn nothing. And I've got no idea about cracking safes or anything else, just making that up.**

**Chapter 2: **

Light, barely distinguishable clicking sounds registered in Rachel's highly sensitive ears as she slowly and carefully turned at the twistlock of the safe. To her luck, it was a very old safe that didn't match up to the high standards to which she was used to. She didn't need any equipment to enhance the clicking noise, her earshells sufficed in this case.

Click. All the muscles in her left hand tensed up. Either she got very lucky after one minute of trying or she had shortly lost focus and just imagined the one clicking noise that seemed to be louder than the others.

Rachel slowly moved her head away from the safe. Her gloved fingers wrapped themselves around the handle and without much hesitation, she tugged.

The brunette had to jump one step backwards when a foul, acid smell hit her nose and she had to hold her breath to refrain from coughing.

"Argh, Smythe!"

An amused chuckle behind her just further annoyed Rachel, and she turned around to show her indignance. "I should've known this was too simple to be true."

The figure of a tall, brunette man emerged from the shadows and even in the dim lit room, his one-sided trade mark smirk didn't go missed by Rachel. She sometimes couldn't stand this man that had the most annoying smirk she had ever seen. Known as Sebastian Smythe by very few, as he liked to use pseudonyms when consorting with criminals, he had established a reputation for all things concerning security devices.

"Easy or not, you just failed," he pointed out while Rachel was still holding her nose and shooting disgusted looks at the safe, which continued to spread a nauseating smell.

"Failed?" Disbelief added to Rachel's many expressions on her face.

"Yes, failed," Sebastian patiently repeated, his smirk stretching his cheeks, and he motioned one hand to the smelling, old safe. "You let yourself get fooled by the easy look of this. The clever owner knows that his safe can be easily cracked, so he attaches an additional security measure as mundane as an automatically-triggered pepper spray. In this case, I spared you the misery and replaced it with a stink bomb, but you get what I mean. The moment you got all this in your face, you forgot you were on a mission and frankly, you just did a very ungallant jump there, Berry. I wouldn't be surprised if an elephant jumped softer than you."

Rachel scoffed but took the advice to heart nonetheless, because it were the little things that caused the biggest problems. She might be stubborn and prideful, but she was not going to risk her life by refusing to accept help where it was necessary.

"And maybe next time you try not to move too close to the door with your face, I think I can almost see your profile on the safe...oh, I think I spot a hair, what a nice gesture for the detectives so they don't have to search long for a DNA analysis. "

Rachel ignored the mocking tone in the man's voice. Pulling off her white plastic gloves, she walked past Sebastian and didn't bother for a polite goodbye.

"Tell Lopez that I'm tired of teaching her diva-friend if she's not showing me respect anytime soon," Sebastian called after her and even then could Rachel hear the smirk in his voice. She couldn't remember a time where he wasn't wearing that unnerving smirk.

If it was up to her, she would've never seeked for his help in the cracking safes department. She didn't even understand for what it was good for; all the safes with really valuable goods were secured with a number code and not with twistlocks. Actually, Rachel had already come across eye and fingertips scanners.

But Santana had insisted on her learning the basics, and this decision came rather out of the blue. Just one week ago, Rachel had come home from observing the Museum of Modern Art, eager to tell Santana about her new-found information when the Latina interrupted her and began talking about safes and twistlocks. About how it couldn't be possible that professionals like them didn't even know how to open a safe.

Rachel was nothing if not ambitious, and when Santana teased her not to be skilled enough to crack a safe per hand and hearing, she couldn't deny this challenge and accepted to be tutored by one of Santana's criminal friends first.

* * *

Another coffee cup got carelessly thrown into the trash bin, now making it a total of seven empty coffee cups in there.

Quinn held the back of her hand to her forehead to check her temperature. Was approaching insanity measurable through temperature? Did the heat on her skin mean that she was about to lose her mind?

The blonde detective tiredly walked towards one of her colleagues, Finn Hudson, and stopped by his desk. "Please tell me you have achieved some process in the five minutes I haven't bothered you."

Hudson looked up from his computer while yawningly rubbing his eyes, giving Quinn a rather unobstructed view inside his mouth and she turned her face away because she was too tired to suppress a disgusted look.

"Well," he started, turning the screen of his computer to her and pointing to various internet windows. "The stolen artworks all have one thing in common. They were painted by the same artist, Jonathan Sylvester."

The fatigue in Quinn's eyes immediately vanished. "And you couldn't have found this out four days earlier? This is the first step you always do, search for connections between the stolen objects!"

Feeling unrightfully scolded, Hudson turned the screen back to himself with a rather brusque movement. "I've been doing research on Santana Lopez's background as I was ordered by you."

"And that took four days? No, don't answer that. Tell me more about Lopez, I still want to know what she's doing for a living."

Though the former suspect Santana Lopez had been dismissed, Quinn still held an interest in her background. The blonde told herself it was for the case, to see if there weren't some things she had overlooked, but in reality, she was using Lopez to get closer to Rachel Berry.

She still hadn't had the courage to call the unforgettable lawyer and arrange a lunch meeting to discuss about the case. The contact card with the intimidating number rested inside her purse and she would make up excuses not to use it whenever she saw it peeking out.

"Uhh," Hudson scratched his neck. "You see, there's this problem -"

"Oh no."

Quinn wasn't ready to take another blow. Her motivation and faith was sinking like the Titanic and if there were no lifeboats to be found soon, she would go down. She needed to get information, a lead, a hint, just something. Her reputation depended on this, her everything; she needed to save her face in front of her captain and the mayor.

She could already feel the gloating looks from the other detectives in her department, snickering about the fact that the well-renowned Quinn Fabray couldn't solve a simple case of art theft when she had solved bigger and tougher cases before.

"Hudson, we can't afford problems now."

"You don't think I know that?" The tall man didn't contain his frustration and annoyance when he retorted through gritted teeth. "But it's not my fault if my computer crashes whenever I type in Santana Lopez into our data base. I tried it three times, I even called Evans for help, but he couldn't change anything either."

Without a response, Quinn pushed herself off Hudson's work desk and marched a familiar and frequently used route to another office. Standing in front of a glass door, she could easily see what the person inside was doing, but she politely knocked anyway.

A man with ruffled blonde hair looked up from his computer and he managed to give Quinn a small smile before he waved her in.

"Hey, Sam."

"Quinn. Is Mike still not back?" he asked, his eyes looking behind Quinn like he was expecting the asian detective to appear behind her.

"He said he would try to get a search warrant for Kurt Hummel's estates in Tribeca and SoHo. I don't know what's taking him so long, he's usually very persuasive."

Quinn leaned against the glass wall and watched Sam Evans push himself away from the desk, rolling backwards with his office chair. "Kurt Hummel? The designer Kurt Hummel?"

"If you mean the creator of clothes I wouldn't be able afford even if I worked a hundred years, then yes."

Sam ran a hand through his blonde locks, pushing them back until they fell into place again. He didn't hide his confusion when he faced Quinn. "Is it for the MoMa case or something entirely different?"

"No, the MoMa case," Quinn replied. "We made a funny discovery that Kurt Hummel had bid a high sum for two of the stolen artworks two years ago at an auction. Not even one month in his possession, the police knocked on his door and required him to hand them out because they were property of New York. The auction had been illegal."

"Did he know that?"

"Apparently not, or he wouldn't have bothered to bid."

Sam wetted his lips. "Did he get his money back?"

"No, the auction shouldn't have been allowed in the first place."

"Ouch," the male detective hissed, before he asked, "and how much money did he throw out of the window?"

Quinn deliberated for a short while, then replied with a grimace at the horrendously high sum, "The current value should be two million. Each."

Grabbing his hair at the reply, Sam lowly said, "I'd be pretty pissed."

"Maybe pissed enough to steal them back. Or in this case, hire someone to steal them back."

Both fell silent as they mulled over these facts. While Sam was trying to imagine himself in the position of having thrown four million dollars away, Quinn thought about all the things she would've done with the money. She knew none of her plans would've contained buying paintings.

Someone knocked on the door and not a second later, the head of Finn Hudson peeked in. "Evans, my computer crashed again."

Quinn didn't miss the shadow of an annoyed look crossing Sam's face as he reluctantly stood up, laying his own work aside to help one of his colleagues. She followed them out of the office, to Hudson's workplace.

"What is it this time?" Sam mumbled as he sat down on Hudson's office chair, taking a look at his computer.

"The data is crashing all the time. I typed in Kurt Hummel and it seemed to work for one sec, you know, showing his profile and stuff, but then everything vanished and it won't budge anymore."

Sam's face wrinkled and Quinn watched his expressions change.

"A virus?" Quinn offered.

"It can't be," Sam muttered, his fingers rapidly typing on the keyboard. "A virus would set off our precinct's alarm. All the computers would shut down automatically to avoid further data transfer."

Hudson tried to make himself useful as he added, "And it only happens with certain names. I typed in other names, and everything worked quite normally."

"Really?" Quinn raised an eyebrow. "And which names cause the computer to crash?"

"Until now, only Santana Lopez and Kurt Hummel. I haven't come across other names that make the system crash."

It couldn't be coincidence, was Quinn's immediate thought. It was always her first and favorite thought.

She distanced herself away from the two male detectives and slowly strode over to her own workplace. Just in that moment, the elevator doors of this floor opened to reveal a grim Mike Chang leaving it. In his hands no permission in paper form for a search warrant.

"Was it judge Figgins?" Quinn empathically asked when he stood in front of her with a frown.

Mike slowly shook his head, appearing more and more frustrated by the second.

"Ever heard of a Harmony Young?" his strained voice said. "Black hair, nice face, but a creepy smile?"

Quinn cluelessly shrugged her shoulders, "No. Let me guess, she said no?"

Mike defeatedly nodded. "Apparently, we don't have enough evidence for a confirmed suspicion. And when it comes to Kurt Hummel, we have to be especially careful about misjudged accusations because if we come up empty after the house search, the press will pull the name of our precinct into the dirt. From what I learned, Hummel's name is a big one in the fashion branch. Mess with him, mess with the celebrity world."

Nothing seemed to work in their favor anymore. They stood still, couldn't move forward anymore, couldn't do anything. Their hands were tied, by the law and by their technical boundaries.

"What are they doing?" Mike asked her, nodding with his chin towards the two figures of Sam and Hudson.

"The data base keeps crashing whenever we type in Lopez' or Hummel's name," Quinn replied, pinching the bridge of her nose. Here it was again, the feeling of insanity creeping up on her.

"A virus?"

"According to Sam, no. Or the entire precinct's system would've shut down."

"True, I forgot about this self-protection measure."

They didn't say anything for a while, just watching Sam doing his work on the computer, weakly grinning at his expletives that seemed to flow in one string. No success in getting the computer to work again.

"Have you called the cute lawyer yet?" Mike suddenly asked her, verbally knocking her off the track.

"What?" Quinn reacted without thinking, "No!"

"Why not?" Mike said without comprehension. "You need to get out of your office, it would do you some good. Call her or I will!"

Quinn narrowed her eyes at him. "You don't have her number."

That was when Mike mischievously grinned at her. "I do. Lopez gave me a contact card to call her, remember her interrogation? I still have it."

They had a stare contest that was interrupted by loud yell.

"Fuck, it crashed again!"

* * *

The walls of the large warehouse echoed the terrifying noise of bullets cutting through the air.

Rachel hid behind a container with her sweating back pressed against the cool metal, sending shivers down her spine. In the palm of her small hand lied a black gun, waiting to be fired.

But she knew better than to blindly shoot into the darkness. Tactic and strategy. It was nothing but a game.

She strained her ears for sounds that could indicate the position of her enemy, who had stopped mindlessly firing off rounds of bullets that were very much limited.

Rachel tucked her hair behind her ear, then fished for a few bullets in her pocket. When silence seemed to continue, she raised her hand with the bullets and threw them far away from herself, to her right.

A round of shots were fired, just behind the container she was hiding, and the enemy had finally revealed himself.

Now Rachel had to act quick; she crawled around the container from the left side and when she saw the shadow of the person, she raised her gun and aimed.

"Whoa!"

A Glock fell to the ground, followed by the person who had been holding it.

Rachel disarmed her own gun and tucked it in her gun holder, pulling out a dagger instead.

She walked to the person lying on the ground, kneeling next to the figure and holding the dagger to the throat.

"You lost," she whispered slowly. "But you're getting better."

And Rachel withdrew the sharp weapon.

The person on the ground scoffed and sat up straight, rubbing their hands. "I almost thought you wanted to shoot my hands off, thanks for the almost heart attack."

Rachel rolled her eyes and put away her dagger, then shortly clapped twice and the light in the warehouse went on, illuminating the face of the person sitting on the ground.

"You get so easily scared, Sugar," Rachel said with a small smile before holding out her hand, helping the girl to get up.

Both standing now, Sugar Motta faced Rachel with a defiant look. "My daddy's not paying you to scare my fragile heart."

Shaking her head in amusement, Rachel led Sugar out of the warehouse, knowing fully well for what Mr Motta was really paying her. And that was certainly _not_ for training her into a professional killer. Actually, Mr Motta had instructed her not to teach Sugar anything of useful knowledge because he didn't want his baby girl to join his infamous Mafia gang in New York. He wanted her to have a normal life and he only let her take lessons with Rachel because she wanted to learn.

So to entertain the spoiled girl, Rachel agreed and she didn't see a reason not to; the large paychecks for nothing seemed a good argument. All she had to do was to show the girl the basic things, like handling a gun or swinging a knife. But she would never go too deep into it or even encourage Sugar to try it out in real life.

Mr Motta even promised a big bonus if she was able to talk Sugar out of joining her dad's 'business'. That was why Rachel pulled some stunts like shooting the gun off Sugar's hands, just to scare her into giving up. But until now, she was quite stubborn.

Next to her, Sugar suddenly sighed as they exited the warehouse. Rachel shortly glanced at her, unsure to ask.

"I don't want to disappoint my father," Sugar muttered with her head hanging. "I'm bad at being bad."

Suddenly having the urge to laugh in relief, Rachel suppressed the feeling and empathically side-hugged the young girl with one arm. "Can I be honest with you?"

"Yeah?" Sugar questioningly and curiously replied.

"You could never disappoint him," Rachel said with a smile. "He actually doesn't want you to get involved in a life of crime. Not everything is as cool as it seems."

"But those movies -"

"Are from Hollywood, therefore fake." Rachel's smile went askew as she continued, a bitter tone tinting her voice, "Being a criminal requires some sacrifices. I gave up my Broadway dreams, you know. Because what would happen if I actually managed to land a big role and people suddenly cared for my private life? What if one sneaky journalist digged deeper than anyone else and found out about my true identity? What then?"

Sugar looked at her with wide eyes.

"What about Al Capone?" she asked with so much naivety that it hurt Rachel to look into her eyes. "He was famous _and _criminal, yet he never got into jail during his most successful years. Journalists liked him because he was a gentleman, the nicest gangster of Chicago."

"Well, he did get into jail in the end," Rachel quietly remarked. "And why am I talking about this with you? Al Capone was a hundred years ago, you don't think that today things work differently?"

Sugar crossed her arms and pouted. "I hate it when others are right."

Rachel sighed and closed her eyes shortly. "As I already said, your dad would actually be delighted if you presented him the idea of _not _following his footsteps."

"Okay. But you tell him."

Rolling her eyes, Rachel followed Sugar into her sport car.

* * *

"Ring! Ring!"

The sound of her phone ringing obnoxiously loud distracted Rachel for one second, but this one second of lost focus was enough to let Santana swipe her foot under the shorter brunetter, making her fall on her back.

"Fuck, Santana!" Rachel groaned in pain, rolling on her side. She couldn't believe that she had lost after one hour of hard concentration, where no one seemed to be giving in, even when they slipped on their own sweat.

Santana panted heavily and wiped at her glistening forehead with the back of her hand. She was exhausted, but satisfied. "You know distractions can happen in real fights, too."

Rachel pushed away her damp hair clinging to her sweaty face and slowly sat up, holding her back.

"Could you please give me my phone?"

To her mild suprise, Santana actually complied and wordlessly handed her the still ringing phone.

"Unknown number," Rachel muttered as she looked at the screen. Accepting the call, she answered, "Rachel Berry talking, how can I help you?"

It was silent for a few seconds and Rachel thought the caller had hung up again, when an insecure voice suddenly spoke up, "Hello. It's detective Quinn Fabray. Uhm, I don't know if you remember me, maybe you meet a lot of detectives -"

"No, no, I remember you fine," Rachel quickly said, scrambling to her feet; the pain in her back was long forgotten. Santana gave her a questioning look, but she was ignored.

"I'm sorry I haven't attempted to make this call sooner, work is keeping me busy," came the apologetic voice on the other side of the line, and Rachel didn't know what to feel about this. It was her doing after all, that the blonde detective had been kept busy.

"Oh, yes, of course it's always work, isn't it?" Rachel answered with a short laugh, her thoughts racing as she tried to find topics to talk about, so she could reel the detective in a long conversation. To make her reveal more about herself. "Any progress to report?"

Santana had been listening long enough to figure out who was calling and she was shaking her head at Rachel's blunt question. But the brunette thought that this direct inquiry didn't seem out of ordinary at all; non-criminals would be interested in details of a grand theft case, too.

"Not that I know of," Quinn tried to jokingly reply, but the bitter undertone still managed to lace her voice and Rachel caught on to it. Her acting classes had taught her far more than to just bring out emotions. She could hear them, see them and most importantly, play with them. She knew how to juggle with the human mind, knew how to push the people to decisions they didn't want.

It was a trait that she had been unaware of until Santana had discovered it. The discovery itself was unspectacular, not a huge epiphany moment where both cried out in joy at this information. It had been mere observation from Santana's side as she had once witnessed Rachel flirting with a bartender, using all the right words and right looks at the right moments. And not a minute later, when the brunette had returned with a free cocktail because her wallet had been empty, Santana had plainly told her to practice her mind-manipulation tactic.

Rachel wetted her lips at this little piece of information that seemed to be vague and insignificant. But to her, it meant a lot. Because what words couldn't tell you, the emotion they were spoken with could.

And bitterness could express a lot.

Her eyes connected to Santana's and they silently told her to leave. She was at her best when she was alone, when she didn't have to feel embarrassed about Santana witnessing her coy self.

The Latina rolled her eyes, but knew better than protest. She left their training room to head to the shower.

"Well," Rachel slowly started, already seeing herself with the attractive detective at a classy café, engaged in a heated discussion that maybe contained more than just about the MoMa case. "It seems like you need new inspiration and impulse for your work, Ms Fabray. And in my experience, nothing works better than a refreshing lunch break. It's always the small things that can have a huge effect."

"Oh really?" The question was playful, daring even. A complete change to the shy opening tone of the phone call. Rachel liked the way the blonde was easily taking the bait, opening herself up, stepping out of the comfort zone.

Now all Rachel had to do was to guide detective Fabray into the right direction, into a corner where there was no way out.

"Yes, really," she played along, her voice tinted with enough playfulness to sound casual, but not unprofessional. "I happen to know a small but charming café, where we can discuss these touchy subjects in all discreetness, detective. We wouldn't want sensitive information to leak, isn't that right? That wouldn't look good on the best detective in Manhatten."

"Ms Berry, is flattery working that well on the judges, too? Because I find myself struggling to resist this offer. My lunch break is limited to fourty-five minutes, that's hardly enough time to thoroughly enjoy a comfortable lunch with you."

Amusement over the swollen language made Rachel's lips tingle, urging her to smile in appreciation. But this was a game and she had the strings in her hands; she couldn't afford losing focus for one second like the fight earlier with Santana had proved.

"Ms Fabray," Rachel began her sentence the same way Fabray began it; playful and direct. "Flattery works _everywhere._ Maybe you should try it in the interrogation room next time. Maybe you'll find the MoMa thief this way."

"That's a lot of maybe's for a self-confident lawyer like you, Ms Berry."

"Already trying it out, I see."

Both chuckled quietly as they just enjoyed their small talk.

"My charming ways don't just work on judges, detective," Rachel coyly said, trying to imagine the blonde's face, reconstructing her every feature in her mind. "Maybe I can convince your boss to grant you a longer lunch break? Because you seem like you need it."

"Oh no, I can't let you do that, but thanks for the offer."

"I'm a lawyer," Rachel didn't hesitate to reply, lying through her curled lips, "I know how to convince. I don't accept a 'no', neither do I settle for mediocrity."

Static filled the line for a few seconds before Quinn's voice spoke up again. "Do I have a choice?" she asked, and Rachel could hear the smile through her voice.

"I'm afraid you don't," the brunette answered in a not-so-sorry voice. "But we both know that you don't really mind, detective."


	3. Chapter 3

After working out for two hours in their fitness room, Santana tiredly dragged herself to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, when she noticed Rachel applying make-up at the kitchen table with a small mirror propped up in front of her.

Her weird look directed at Rachel slowed down the process of getting a water bottle from the fridge.

"You couldn't photoshop yourself in your bedroom?" Santana asked with a sarcastic bite before she uncapped her bottle and downed the whole content.

Rachel didn't look up as she continued to carefully apply mascara to her lashes.

"I'm only using mascara, I'd hardly call that 'photoshop'," she tonelessly mumbled, doing her eyelashes with quick and short strokes.

"For what occasion? You're usually belting out your high f's to Streisand around this time."

Though Santana had never stopped teasing Rachel about her love for broadway musicals and Barbra Streisand, she actually enjoyed listening to her friend singing during her work-out. It was mildly comforting and made her work out harder for whatever reason.

"Well, _someone_ needs to do the dirty work, Santana," Rachel said, done with her make-up. She raised an eyebrow at Santana, who was wiping away the sweat on her forehead with her tank top.

"Really?" Santana muttered, eyeing the sweat drops that had collected in her cleavage with annoyance. "Because I don't see you getting dirty like me."

Rachel rolled her eyes and packed her mascara away. "I'm talking about getting information from the NYPD. First hand. And since you neither possess tact nor patience, I will be the one doing the hard work."

"Hard work?" Santana incredulously countered after looking up from her cleavage, "You call chatting up a hot chick hard work? She's gonna throw everything she knows at you and then expect you to reward her by banging her. Ha, and who's the idiot, who always has to beat up the traitors with Puck as my only protection?"

"Well, I offered to help -" Rachel interjected, only to have Santana laughing exaggeratedly loud.

"No, it's fine, Rachel. You go do the _hard work._"

"I will ignore the mocking tone and do exactly that," Rachel unfazedly said, ignoring the still chuckling Santana leaning against the kitchen counter. The shorter brunette stood up and grabbed her designer coat draped over the stool, shrugging it over her shoulders.

"Oh and by the way, Sebastian complained about your lack of cooperation during his lessons," Santana added, her expression turning serious again.

"What's the point?" Rachel asked in annoyance, fumbling with her coat's buttons. "We've left that league long ago. We don't break into private estates anymore, we don't need to unlock safes by hand and ear anymore. And his arrogance can be very upsetting, which you know yourself."

"But he's useful," Santana retorted. "You know he's the key to every existing safe out there and to unlock the bigger ones, you've got to get the hang of unlocking the smaller ones. Rachel, you always say yourself that knowledge is power."

Rachel stared at Santana, then sighed. "I'll try. But if he surprises me with a stink bomb again..."

"That's still better than pepper spray."

Rachel huffed and theatrically turned around to leave the kitchen. "I'll be gone for three hours maximum. Tell Brittany I said hi and don't forget to call Puck for the next step in our mission."

"Three hours?" Santana yelled back once Rachel was already out of the kitchen. "Did you already count in two hours of banging that detective?"

"Language, Santana," Rachel shouted from the hallway. "And no, I plan to visit our favorite judges."

And with a quiet click, the house door closed itself.

Santana furrowed her eyebrows before she slowly nodded to herself. Then she shrugged and went to call Puck, hoping to shorten the time until Brittany got home from her dance school.

* * *

"I heard you've taken over Figgins' place permanently, Ms Young."

A woman with long, black hair looked up from her work desk and a knowing grin reached her pretty features. Many people called her intimidating, scary even with her smile that didn't reach her sly eyes. She seemed like a nice and open woman at first sight, but if you got on her wrong side, she would be the type of person to watch you choke to death while giving you the scary smile she was known for.

"Well, hello Ms Berry, long time no see."

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Rachel politely said, standing by the doorway with the half opened door behind her back.

"Oh no, not at all. Please come in and take a seat," Harmony stood up from her own expensive executive chair and motioned Rachel to come in. She closed the door behind her.

The raven-haired woman walked to the windows of her chic office and closed the shutters, before turning around with a one-sided smile. "Can I offer you something to drink? Scotch? Whiskey?"

"Hm, no thanks, I'm just here for the usual business," Rachel replied and sat down on the offered chair. "But I can see that you have a new impressive office."

Harmony copied her action and lowered herself on her own executive chair again. She leaned back with a sly grin. "After chief justice Figgins resigned from his position and no one else volunteered to replace him, the job got handed to me. They say that I made history, because I'm the youngest female chief justice they ever had. But some object to this decision, wanting to revise my appointment because it stretches the limits of legality."

"Oh really?" Rachel asked, amused. "Must be a hard position then if no one wants to fill it in. You must be very brave then."

Harmony laughed and slowly said, "Well, I don't understand why they fear this position so much. I mean, if they want justice for the right side, then it can't be so hard, you know? Quite a pity that Figgins suddenly resigned, so unexpected and out of sudden. Like he just wanted to get away. I wonder what happened to him."

"Hm," Rachel agreeingly hummed. "Maybe he didn't want to do it anymore. Must have been too much for him...all the corruption and fraud he's facing everyday."

"Didn't know how to deal with it," Harmony added with a sigh, before she smirked and leaned forward. "I guess I haven't said thank you yet."

"No need," Rachel easily replied. "As long as you keep us out of the court, we'll keep you in it."

"Do I even want to know what happened to Figgins?" Harmony asked out of curiosity.

Rachel slowly shook her head. "Not even I do. Santana dealt with him after he uttered his doubts of loyality towards us."

"Harsh," Harmony hissed and leaned back in her chair again. "I'm not keen on meeting her at her worst."

"Trust me, you don't want to meet her at her best either," Rachel added with a smile and they both laughed.

"Since I'm sure you're not here for small talk, I've got some interesting information for you," Harmony said once they got serious again. She lowered her voice. "A NYPD detective applied for a search warrant for Kurt Hummel's estates and I got wind of it. I managed to deal with the detective personally."

Rachel sat up straighter and squared her shoulders. "What was his argument?"

"They suspect Hummel to be the instigator of the art theft. They found out that he had bid for two paintings at an illegal auction years ago. Paid the money, but didn't get to keep them. And now they assume that he had them stolen back."

"Hm," Rachel hummed to herself, thoughtfully staring to the side. This information itself was harmless, but once they figured out the context and connection to Rachel Berry, this piece of knowledge could be reavealing and dangerous.

"And your argument?" Rachel asked after a while.

"Easy. Hummel is well known in the fashion industry and I used his fame as a reason not to disturb him with no evidence."

Rachel nodded, impressed. "To get you on board was the best decision I made."

Harmony laughed and waved her off. "To jump on your board was the best decision _I _made."

"Well, then, I hope you won't ever give us a reason to push you off it."

* * *

Before Rachel entered the café, she quickly pulled out her phone and used the screen as a mirror, checking her appearance. Brushing a few loose strands over her shoulder, she pocketed her phone again and finally walked into the classy café.

On instinct, she turned her head to the right and saw the blonde detective sitting in a cozy looking booth in the corner. Rachel took a deep breath and set her face straight, trying not to let her smug expression show too much.

"I hope I didn't let you wait for too long," Rachel smoothly said as she glided into the booth opposite of Quinn.

"No apologizing for being late?" Quinn tilted her head.

Thrown back by this, Rachel glanced at her watch to see that she was perfectly in time. She looked up to find the detective trying to hide a smirk.

"Did you just test me?" Rachel slowly asked with a lopsided smile.

"Well, I found it interesting that you said you hoped I didn't wait too long instead of right out apologizing. It means that instead of addressing your own tardiness, you put the focus on me with the undertone that I had come too early."

Not trying to show how uncomfortable Rachel felt being psycho-analyzed, she shrugged it off with a fake smile.

A waitress asking them for their orders gave the brunette enough time to collect herself again.

"So, psychology, huh?" Rachel started once the waitress was gone.

Quinn Fabray leaned back with what Rachel would describe as the perfect winning smile. She nodded.

"Psychology classes belonged to my training."

But when she noticed that Rachel seemed to have gotten quieter, she quickly added, "I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. I sometimes can't help analyzing people, it's my job you know."

"No, it's fine," Rachel answered with a soothing smile. "I was amazed by your accurateness."

"Oh," Quinn let out in surprise. "Thanks?"

"Not many people see right through me," Rachel explained and the corners of her smiling lips twitched, which made Quinn curious. She had seen the brunette do it before. When she had told her that she wouldn't want to meet more lawyers like her.

"But it is a good thing, isn't it? When people don't see right through you, when they can't figure you out on first sight?" Quinn said. "Who wants to be transparent or shallow? What we want is complexity, a deep personality."

But this was not what Rachel wanted for Quinn. She wanted her to be easy, to be naïve and trusting. That would make her mission so much easier.

The waitress returned with their orders, allowing Rachel to plan her next step. She couldn't let Quinn keep on overtaking most of the conversation, she needed the strings of control back in her hands.

"You keep on surprising me," Rachel honestly said as she sipped on her drink. "Your intelligence is rather intimidating." And she meant it.

"Is that a good thing?" Quinn unsurely asked. She couldn't figure out how much compliment in that statement was, and if it wasn't intended to be a compliment at all, then she wanted to know. For some reason, she cared about what Rachel thought of her.

Rachel smacked her lips, then hesitatingly answered, "Yes, it is."

She smiled, pretending to be shy and embarrassed about it by looking down, letting her hair fall forward and cover her distressed face like a curtain.

_No, not a good thing at all._

"Then I'll be honest with you," Quinn said after a moment, making Rachel look up with light interest. "You intrigue me."

And genuine hazel eyes pierced into hers, unwavering and open, eager to be read and interpreted.

Maybe this was it. The cue to seal the deal and throw away any precaution, because frankly, that was the only way Rachel could think of getting closer to the detective without arising suspicion. That mutual interest in the art theft case didn't suffice as an excuse to keep meeting the blonde more than once. She needed a better reason to see her again and again, she needed a stronger bond between them two.

Rachel needed to pull Quinn in. Sexually. That was the only way, even if it went against everything she believed in. It was dangerous, yes, but it would be even more dangerous to let that intelligent head figure out the art theft case without someone distracting her and pushing her into the wrong direction.

They said love made blind. Well, what better way to blind the detective with some harmless feelings?

"Is this your way of declaring your affection for me?" Rachel coyly asked, having chosen the path she was going to go.

Quinn grinned and shyly replied, "Maybe? Depends on how you feel."

"And if I feel the same attraction?"

"Then yes."

* * *

When Rachel entered her apartment, the first thing she did was throwing her purse against the wall out of frustration. The loud noise made Santana sprint out of the living room and into the hallway, finding her friend seething by herself.

"What happened?" Santana immediately asked in worry, rushing to her friend and shaking her shoulders. "Did she call the cops on you? Do we have to pack things?"

"No, but _I _should probably pack my things and just leave forever," Rachel hissed and tore off her designer coat, not caring if all the buttons got ripped off. "I made a big mistake, Santana."

Santana covered her friend's cheeks with her hands, calmly asking, "What happened?"

Rachel didn't meet her eyes. "I...I may or may not have asked Detective Fabray out on a date."

And Santana suddenly had the urge to press the face between her hands into mush. Instead she let them drop and palm her own instead. "Oh my fucking gosh. What did you fucking _do_? I said bang her once, not fucking start a relationship with her!"

"I know!" Rachel yelled, feeling scolded for no reason. "But then she started to figure me out, piece by piece and I panicked, I needed a reason to see her again and- and win her trust-"

"Oh, fuck," Santana sighed to herself. "And you thought dating her was the only way?"

Rachel slowly nodded, looking to the ground.

"What the fuck were you thinking? Are you that desperate to get laid regurlarly?" Santana snapped, turning her back on Rachel as she walked away, throwing her arms over her head. "Fine, your problem, not mine. If you manage to get sex _and _information, then hooray for you. But if everything blows up in your face, I won't save you."

Rachel stared after. Then she yelled, "Thanks, it's always nice to know that I have your support."

Crossing her arms, Rachel sighed and blankly looked up at the white ceiling. "Well, shit."


End file.
